This one has been rambling around in my head since I read it in The New Yorker a few weeks ago. I don't know the meaning of half the words, but that seems to be the beauty of it. A study in how to pack a phrase if I've ever seen one...
It’s just me throwing myself at you,
romance as usual, us times us,
not lust but moxibustion,
a substance burning close
to the body as possible
without risk of immolation.
Nearness without contact
causes numbness. Analgesia.
Pins and needles. As the snugness
of the surgeon’s glove causes hand fatigue.
At least this procedure
requires no swag or goody bags,
stuff bestowed upon the stars
at their luxe functions.
There’s no dress code,
though leg irons
are always appropriate.
And if anyone says what the hell
are you wearing in Esperanto—
Kion diable vi portas?—
tell them anguish
is the universal language.
Stars turn to train wrecks
and my heart goes out,
admirers gush. Ground to a velvet!
But never mind the downside,
mon semblable, mon crush.
Love is just the retaliation of light.
It is so profligate, you know,
so rich with rush.
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